Im So Glad You Like It!

I’m so glad you like it! 🥰🥰🥰

I too want Joel to get me pregnant

Softer

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader

Summary: Joel’s feeling a tad self-conscious

Warnings/Tags: Humor, No outbreak AU, Tommy being an asshole in a brotherly way, fluff, pregnancy, sympathetic pregnancy, blended families, strip tease, nothing bad happens to Sarah ever and Ellie's your kid, and I think that’s it?

A/N: Thank you much @strang3lov3, @whocaresstillthelouvre, @jay-zzle for your eyes and Jai also for the moodboard!!! 😍🥰😘

This is for @beefrobeefcal’s Joel Sat on Me challenge! I hope you laugh at this as much as I did writing it 😅

Masterlist||AO3

Divider by @saradika-graphics

The gender reveal/baby shower was going off without a hitch. Maria was making sure people knew where to put gifts, Tommy was helping Joel at the grill, while your mom was helping you put the Boy or Girl banner around you. You hate this kind of attention but Maria and your parents both wanted to make a show of it. Despite your arguments on tradition being only for the first baby.

“Well, it’s you and Joel’s first baby together,” Maria deadpanned, all while your mom nodded along.

“Can’t beat that logic!” Your dad grinned.

“Fine,” you relented, rolling your eyes, “Good thing it’s the last one too.” 

Joel smirked, his palm caressing your thigh, “It’ll be fine,” he whispered in your ear, “Least there will be cake,” he added with a shrug. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Can’t beat that logic!” You reply mockingly, sticking your tongue out.

—

“Mom!” Ellie shouts, “Sarah’s trying to sneak into the cake!”

“Quit being such a narc!” Sarah laughs, playfully smacking Ellie’s arm, “You want to know just as much as I do!”

“Girls!” Joel hollers. “Come help your uncle Tommy set up!”

Both girls walk to the grill, helping Tommy carry hamburgers and hotdogs to the table.

“Alright everyone!” Maria announces, raising her voice to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s eat! Parents-to-be first!”

“Hey momma,” Joel grins, meeting you at the food table and placing a soft kiss on your temple, “What ya in the mood for?”

“More like what is the baby in the mood for?” you grumble, trying to adjust the sash around your body. “I hate this fucking thing,” you hiss.

“Just gotta eat, cut the cake and get through presents then I’ll kick everyone out,” Joel reassures.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you mumble, grabbing a plate and staring at the food. The baby decided it wanted corn on the cob, a burger with all the extras, potato salad, and a small salad with more ranch on it than lettuce.

“Jesus Joel,” Tommy laughed when you both got to one of the tables. “Your woman’s the one eatin’ for two not you!”

Everyone looked at Joel with his plate piled high with two burgers, two hotdogs, and plenty of sides to feed a small army. You saw the flush creeping up his neck as he sat next to you. Joel opened his mouth to say something but Maria interrupted.

“Oh hush,” Maria said, smacking Tommy softly on the shoulder.

“Probably going through that sympathetic pregnancy thing,” a guest piped in. “My husband did that too!”

“Sympathetic pregnancy?” Ellie asked with her mouth full of potato salad. Your mom begins to laugh, shaking her head at Ellie.

“Ellie, gross,” you hiss. “Finish eating before you speak.”

Ellie makes a show of swallowing her food before speaking again. “What the hell is sympathetic pregnancy?”

“Ellie,” you groan. “Language! I haven’t spent the past 13 years raising a hellion!”

“And just think, you’re starting over!” your dad laughs.

Joel, meanwhile, keeps pushing the food around on his plate, taking smaller bites of the sides.

“Okay, googled it!” Sarah announces to the table, wagging her phone and clearing her throat. “Google says, c- cou- nevermind, I’m not even gonna try. Sympathetic pregnancy is a proposed condition in which an expectant father experiences some of the same symptoms and behavior as his pregnant partner. These most often include major weight gain, altered hormone levels, morning nausea, and disturbed sleep patterns.”

“That why you were asking for Pepto the other day at the site?” Tommy asks, nudging Joel’s shoulder before sitting down. “Dealing with some morning sickness as well?”

“Damn it Tommy,” Joel growls, balling up his fist. “If you don’t cut it out-“

“Alright, alright,” Maria hisses. “Enough.” She adds pointing at Tommy.

—

Joel stood in front of the mirror, looking at himself. Marriage had been good to him. His mental health and financial stability had improved, and he seemed overall a happier person. The only drawback seemed to be the effect it had on his waistline the moment he got you pregnant. He hadn’t thought about it before but Tommy got in his head. Especially when he announced to everyone at the party it made sense now why Joel had to move his tool belt to the next hole for it to fit.

“Whatcha lookin’ at hot stuff?” You smirk, standing in the doorway of the adjoining bathroom with your toothbrush in hand.

“Thinkin’ I need to go on a diet,” Joel huffs out, turning towards you with his hands on his hips.

“The fuck would you do that for?!”

“Tommy’s ri—“

“I swear if the next words out of your mouth are Tommy’s right.” You pout, trying your best to not let the toothpaste escape your mouth as you move back into the bathroom, spitting into the sink, “I’m gonna kill ‘em.”

Going back to the bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed, watching Joel find his pajamas for the night. Sure, he’s gotten thicker in the middle since you got pregnant. His pants fit a bit tighter around his thighs. His chest, oh god his chest, the way your hands grip onto the meaty pecs he has now. You make a small noise at the memory of this morning before the girls woke up, and how you rode him as best you could with your swollen belly in the way, slick pooling in your underwear.

“What?” Joel asks, turning to look at you, noticing that feral glint in your eyes. He’s seen it more and more as the months have gone by. Sarah’s mom was nothing compared to you at this stage in pregnancy. Revved up and ready to go 24/7 these days.

“Tommy’s got it totally wrong,” you grin, “I love the way you look these days Joel.”

“Yeah?” Joel smiles shyly, rubbing the back of his neck, turning to face you, “what.. uh.. what about it?”

“Dad bod through and through,” you hum, adjusting on the bed to sit a little further back. “Was thinking about this morning, how I can hold onto your chest a little better with your pecs being a little softer.”

“Yeah?” Joel grins, watching your eyes track his fingers as they open the first couple buttons of his flannel, his chest barely peeking out through the fabric, “Should I put on a show?”

“I wanna see my man!” you let out a breath nodding your head eagerly.

“Feel like we need some music or something,” Joel says, letting out a shy laugh, trailing his palms down the front of his shirt, popping open more of the buttons. You begin humming 70’s porno music, “No thank you, that’s enough.”

You shrug letting out a giggle as he continues unbuttoning his shirt, his strong chest and thick belly being revealed as he rips the flannel shirt back in a dramatic fashion, spreading his legs wide and tilting his head to sway his curls behind him.

“Jesus Christ, Napoleon Dynamite. Ya gonna take it off or what?”

“‘Scuse me?” Joel asks, straightening up, pinning you with a look, pulling his flannel back over his shoulders, “Listen, I’ve never done this for anybody. I’d ‘preciate if ya didn’t make rude comments.”

You clear your throat and lean your arms back against the bedding to prop yourself up, “Sorry, horny goblins took over, proceed.”

With his flannel shirt open, he starts flipping his belt open, stalking towards you, nodding your head at this new development, sliding his belt out quickly from his belt loops causing a gasp to escape your lips.

“Mmmm,” you moan softly, thighs squeezing together, and squirming on the bed “Joel. You look so fucking good like this.”

Joel spins around to show you his backside before slipping one shoulder of the flannel off, turning his head to the side with a smirk as he slowly slides it off his arm, followed by the other. You hear the button and zipper of his jeans sliding down. He begins teasing you with his jeans, dropping them some before pulling them back up and swiveling his hips, he puts one foot on the opposite leg to try and help pull the leg out.

“Fuck!” He yelps, as he falls back sitting on you, “Shit that wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“Ow!” You groan, smacking his ass to get him to move. He rolls off you to lay beside you on the bed.

“You good?” Joel asks, laying on his side next to you, placing his palm on your belly.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you grin, placing your hand on top of his with a sigh. “No Magic Mike in here, but for your first attempt that was good Miller,” you add with a smirk.

“Fuck you,” Joel grins, leaning up to kiss you.

“Fuck. Please!” You groan, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him in for a deeper kiss.

😍😍😍

Some of my favourite moo-deng photos so far because she's so adorable and silly.

Hello you🩵

To celebrate the follower milestone I reached this morning, I want to do another Love spreading mission ✨🫶🏻🫂

Thank you for being here, being a part of this community I grew to love and being a wonderful person 😇😚

I want to remind you that even though there’s been awful things happening on here, that nobody deserved, we are stronger than “them” 🙏🏻

I hope you are doing good, if not I want you to know that you are not alone and you can always talk to someone. I know that when it’s bad it can feel as if there’s no way out, but there is. It might take long and it will be hard but we can get through this okay? 🩵🩵

Much love, The Moon Fairy/MinaMilk <3

Awww Mina!!! 🥹🥲😭

I have had the worst week ever at work and this legit made me want to cry! 😭🥲😭🥲

Love you!!!!!

Dieter pretending to be the Hallmark boyfriend for her?! 😍😍😍 YES. PLEASE.

i crawl home to her

rating: 18+ explicit

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8.2K

summary: you bring dieter home to meet your family over the holidays.

warnings/tags: discussions of food, mentions of weight gain, brief biphobia, bad family dynamics, hiding parts of yourself to make yourself more palatable, dom!Dieter when his type-A girlfriend needs him to, smut in places it shouldn’t be, a family can be two people, bad jokes, mentions of marriage and kids, one light booty smack, peep the super obvious bob's burgers reference, minimal edited, you can pry the image of dieter in ugg's from my cold dead hands

a/n: i've caved and finally added to the evergrowing pile of "Pedro boy fucks you in your childhood home". @sp00kymulderr i told you i'd get it out today -- it might be tomorrow for you, but it's not yet midnight! i present to you part 2 of merry thanksgiving nonsense2023!

🤍Masterlist

You nearly miss the exit off the gray-slushy highway because you’re trying to remember Aunt Gayle’s food allergies. 

And Uncle Rick’s preferred way of taking his coffee in the morning.

And the right detergent to use when washing your niece’s clothes, or else your sister will come after you with a hatchet. 

“Baby, you’re gnawing your fingernails bloody.” 

You blink, surprised to find your hand anywhere near your mouth, the other white-knuckling the steering wheel, and to your enormous embarrassment, he was right – you’d pulled up several hangnails, leaving tiny pink gouges, right under your immaculate holiday nails you got for the express purpose of looking presentable in all the inevitable Insta photos your sister demands every year. 

“Fuck,” you mutter and curl your fingers into your fist as if to hide temptation. From the passenger’s seat, Dieter frowns.

“Twizzler to make it better?” He spins the red, bendy candy enticingly. Your mind suddenly flashes back to the time you both got way too high on his new bong and he made the exact same motions with his dick. You had never laughed so hard in your life. 

The red candy whipping around in a circle, you groan into the steering wheel. 

“I’m turning around. This was a terrible idea.”

“What are you so nervous about?” Dieter half-way laughs. He pulls his Ugg-stuffed feet off the dashboard and sits up. Crumbs from the Starbucks Christmas sugar cookie spill off his “Kris Kingle My Jingle” sweater and onto the seat, but it’s those fucking earnest, curious eyes that always seem to rock your world. You occasionally don’t like to be touched when you’re stressed, so out of the corner of your eye, you see his hand waver before falling back in his lap. “It’s just dinner.” 

“Yeah, but it’s holiday dinner with my family. They’re all so judgy and mean and every time I come home for more than twenty-four hours, I’m reminded exactly why I fucked off to California.”

“Maybe they’re jealous you’re a hot shot director,” Dieter suggests. “Or that you have a ruggedly handsome movie star boyfriend.” Eyebrow raised, he twirls the Twizzler again and manages to bite it out of the air. You half-way expected it to smack him in the face. “They know I’m coming, right?”

You bite your lip, the last phone call with your mother still achingly heavy in your chest.

“You know what she asked when I told her I was bringing home the one and only Dieter Bravo as my boyfriend to meet my family?” You don’t need to look at him to see the furrow in his brow, the slight curve in his shoulders. You prop your elbow up against the window, rubbing your forehead with your fingers. “She asked if it was a career move. If I was dating you to get ahead in the industry . . . like I’m trying to sleep my way to the top.”

There’s a fraught silence. You listen to the wheels churn dirty black snow so you don’t have to look at him. 

“Then why in the world would you start with my dumb ass?”

Despite yourself and despite what’s coming, you smile. But you fight it, wrapping your lip up between your teeth. So he continues:

“If you really want to make it big, you gotta date someone at least forty years older than you. So, what? We’re talking seventy. But, wow, think of the money. Bet he has his dick dripped in gold just to keep it hard–,”

“Dieter!” You swat at him, smile too big to contain, and he grins, grabbing you by the wrist. “That’s terrible!”

“But I made you laugh, didn’t I?”

You smirk. “Barely. More like ha ha than a big chuckle.” 

He nips your palm, the rough hair on his chin scraping the soft skin. 

By some minor miracle and a forcible act of God, your mother is allowing you two to share a bedroom. Not out of respect for your relationship, of course, but there is simply not enough room to spare. You watch those perfect lips imprint themselves in the cup of your hand and you’ve never been more thrilled to have to share a double bed. God, you cannot be this wet before you have to look your mother in the eye. You retract your hand with a breathy exhale. 

“We don’t have to stay long,” Dieter says, a weight to his gaze that proves he hasn’t completely blown off your concern. He twists his body in the seat and crosses his arms, his shoulder pressed into the seat. He watches you with his head against the headrest. “I hate seeing you like this.” 

“I’m already on thin ice because we’re just staying two days.” You shake your head. “My sister and her family have already been there since Monday and plan to stay the rest of the week.” You inhale, hold, and exhale until you can feel your shoulders drop. “It’s just . . . I’ve worked so hard to make something of my life, to be someone I can be proud of, and it just doesn’t matter to them. They want me to marry a banker or something, and quit my job to do cutesy family blogging on Instagram. They’ve never, ever liked the real me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see something come over Dieter’s face. Not annoyance, or irritation, but as if someone kick started his brain. But it passes and he brushes the back of your hand resting over the gearshift with his fingers. 

“I like the real you,” he says quietly. “In fact, I really, really, really like the real you. I gotta keep you around. Who else is gonna remember the name of the best Chinese food place when I’m high?” 

Dieter is sweet, knows the wonders his smile can accomplish, with a twinkle in his eyes. A bit crude, a little distractible, but ultimately, well-meaning. However, he seemed physically incapable of maintaining sincerity. Which in the beginning, was also cute, but now, in a moment of crisis, it was boyish in a way that made you worried. A little scared. Like too much pressure and he’d break.

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

History says no. 

So, maybe you’d just carry everything. 

You smile at him and return your hand to the steering wheel.

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

The car squeals as it stops in the driveway, wheels crunching the cold ice. You look up at your childhood home with the same unease and trepidation that’s been there since childhood.

“Go let ‘em know we’re here,” Dieter says as he unbuckles his belt. There’s still crumbs in the knit of his sweater. At least his sweatpants are clean. But there’s nothing you can do about those Uggs right now– 

His hand squeezes yours, centering the universe that’s spinning like the inside of a martini shaker. You can feel the weight of his gaze press into your chest – heavy, warm, forgiving. He smiles, then slides into a smirk.

“Chillax, bro. Your vibes are not gnarly.”

You huff, trying to offer a smile that’s not a grimace. This was such a bad idea. Maybe it’s not too late to go pay for one of those mail-order boyfriends and keep Dieter in his nice California, hippie plastic wrap. 

You hear your name being called from the porch and that smile fully plummets into a grimace. Gathering from that reserve of confidence that makes you look at male writers, directors, and (yes) actors and tell them they’re idiots and get the fuck off your set, you open the door and head around the corner to the front of the house. 

Yeah, in the face of your mother, that reserve is basically a trickle.

She’s waiting for you on the porch, red dish towel in hand. 

“I thought that might be you, darling! I’d recognize that squeak from that rust bucket anywhere.” She smiles, arms wide, as you bend down to give her a hug. You've had to bend down to hug your mother for years now and you still feel about two feet tall. “How are you? You’ve been good? You look pale, but you’ve definitely been eating, haven’t you?”

She pinches your cheek as if to show you all the extra fat you have on your face. 

“Where’s Dad?” You try not to look like you’re tearing your face out of her grip and glance into the surprisingly quiet house over her shoulder. “Aren’t Emma and Dan supposed to be here?”

“Your father is out finishing his latest woodworking piece. He’s been at it for days, no matter how much I beg him to help with the food or the house. It’s all on me again to save the holidays.” 

As it is every year.

“Your sister and her family went out to get more sweet potatoes. They eat sweet potatoes in California, don’t they?”

Here it comes.

“Yes, Mom, they eat sweet potatoes.”

“Oh good, I thought it’d be considered a carb.” She frowns, hands on her hips as if you’re about to get a proper scolding. “Now you told me you’re going to be bringing your fancy actor boyfriend. Damian Bravado, right? I cooked for exactly seven people, darling, a single empty chair will throw the whole thing off!”

“Yes, Mom, my boyfriend, Dieter Bravo, is here. He’s just in the–,”

Someone, distinctly not your boyfriend, or at least not the boyfriend you left in the car, waltzes up the front steps.

Rings gone.

Earring gone.

Gloves that would make Ryan Gosling seethe with envy covering the tattoo on his hand.

His hair slicked back and curling deliciously around his ears, his dark jeans cover the laces of maroon Timberland boots. His black turtleneck clings to his wide chest, the leather jacket broken in enough to be soft, but not so used there’s tears in the seams. And, to top it all off, his cream-colored scarf curled around his throat looks like it came out of a Hallmark movie.

Maybe you are in a Hallmark movie. Maybe on the way up the porch, you slipped and banged your head and all of this is a bizarre, weirdly-erotic dream. Maybe someone actually did call in a mail-order boyfriend who looks exactly like Dieter and the real one is hog-tied in the trunk of your car. Maybe – 

You’d heard of quick costume changes, but this is ridiculous.

“Debbie!” He calls out, like they’ve been best friends for twenty years. He flourishes a wrapped bouquet of flowers, bright red against the white snow, and hands them to her after bouncing up the steps. His cheeks are tinged pink, as if he’d run the block, but without a drip of sweat on him, he’s simply glowing with what could be presumed as the holiday spirit. 

To your never-ending and horrific surprise, your mother squeals as she takes the flowers. 

“Poinsettias! My –,”

“Favorite, I know.” You stumble out of the way when he leans down and kisses her on her cheek. “And they’re fake, so you can reuse them next year. But you’d never know it at $300 a pop.”

Okay, yes, this is a clone of your boyfriend, a walking holiday Ken doll – Dieter never, ever brags about money. 

“I’m not a banker or anything, but I like to spoil my girls.” 

The bastard winks at you. 

Your mother has turned to gooey, drippy putty in his hands. She’s redder than the hand towel and the poinsettias combined. She flounces, flutters, eyes springing back and forth between the ruby-red flowers in her hands and Dieter’s achingly handsome face – one that hasn’t dimmed that thousand gigawatt smile since he first arrived. 

“Oh, oh my goodness – well, this is just lovely – it’s so nice to finally meet you – I can’t believe she’s been hiding you from us all this time – please, please come in, you must be freezing!”

She backs into the house, still staring at the flowers, then as if she hadn’t been living here for the past fifteen years of her life, she bounces towards the dining room, then on a quick turn, heads for the kitchen, then turns again to the hallway closet. 

“Oh gracious – where did I put – it must be – come in and shut the door behind you – you know where your room is, darling, I’ll be back in just a second, I just have to – ah, these are spectacular –”

A door down the hallway finally swings shut and muffles your mother’s insane rambling. 

So dazed, you don’t see him move until he’s pressed you up against the glass etching of the door, his hand palming your hip and the other diving to cup the back of your neck. He tugs you down into his mouth before you have time to blink.

Jesus Christ, mint? His breath smells like mint??

God, he even fucking kisses like a Hallmark Prince. His mouth pulls you into him and your brain whites out – careless of the little whimper you make, careless of the fact that literally any one of your family members could walk in right now, careless that you’re teetering into him as if on string. Your breath flutters down his throat and he huffs through his nose. The tips of his fingers are chilly enough that you shiver at his touch.

He edges the bottom of your lip with his tongue before pulling back and tightening his grip in your hair. 

And there’s that Dieter smirk you are all too intimately familiar with. 

“How’m I doing?” He mutters. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your nose, and your kissed-pink lips. “I’d say I got Mama Bear on my side.”

Maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t always like this. Between the fresh breath scent in his mouth, the fragrance of his much-too expensive cologne permeating your senses, and his thick thigh shoved under your groin, you are embarrassingly boneless in his arms. You pluck your fingers over the soft leather collar at the back of his neck, just as much to inspect the jacket, as much as to release more of that delicious smell. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” You mutter, smirking, as you wind your fingers into his curls. “Spoil my girls, what the fuck was that?”

“Ah, ha, ha, ha,” he gloats as he lowers his head to your neck. You expect a warm kiss in the length of skin you’ve exposed to him, but instead his teeth lightly tease your throat above your pulse point and you feel your knees buckle as your face warms. “I can be very charming when I want to be.” He squeezes your ass as if to make a point. 

You hold back a moan, flattening it to a shudder in your chest. You can feel his grin in your neck and he shifts you, pulls you closer and compresses you deeper into the wooden door. You can feel your conscious thought melting through your fingers so you blink, lick your lips, try to wiggle out from under his teeth.

“This isn’t a Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. This is Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” You gasp his name into the foyer of your childhood home when he licks you from the curve of your shoulder up under the soft place below your ear. Your hips jerk unconsciously, baser instincts seeking out the friction of his jeans, and you push against his biceps. “Dieter, she’ll be back any minute. She can’t – can’t see us like this.”

You’ve never heard him chuckle like the way he does, so darkly pleased with himself.

“Once I’m done schmoozing her, your father, your sister and her – what did you call him – cardboard husband, we’ll fuck in front of them and they won’t say a word.”

“Dieter!” You shove him just as your mother returns from the kitchen.

She frowns and you feel the scolding coming, the scent of Dieter so obviously entangled in you. You might as well be wearing a sign that reads, hi, yes, I’ve been recently groped why do you ask?

“Did you forget where your room is? Honestly, what would you do without me? Now, follow me and I’ll remind you.”

Schmooze he did. 

From the same magical bag of weirdly specific and perfect gifts, Dieter presents a bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon and two very illegal, but very Cuban cigars. Your father forgets to scowl in the face of some of the most expensive bourbon in the world. 

For your sister, he somehow senses that material objects won’t go as far, so he endears himself to your niece first. Asking her questions about her doll, about her school, what she likes to play with her friends and how crazy it is that hopscotch is his favorite game too. 

In twenty minutes, he’s on his hands and knees, black sleeves pulled up over his immaculate forearms, and etching out a hopscotch board with pink chalk. He nods and interjects while your niece runs around him, demanding a dragon in the corner, or a crown in another, and suddenly your biological clock starts blaring like an air-raid siren. 

“He’s so good with kids,” your sister mutters to you from the door to the garage. A single glance tells you she’s under the same effect of watching a hot man play with a child. You’re so aroused and confused you can’t even eye her with jealousy. 

“Mhmm hmm.” 

“When are you going to have some of your own?” 

And you’re back inside before you can see the look on his face as he lifts his head.

It would be insulting to call it eerie. 

It’s not like he’s physically incapable of smelling clean, or dressing nice, or even combing his hair. You’ve seen him do it time and time again for galas and interviews. Hell, that time he took you on a date to get sushi in the tallest building in Toronto, he didn’t look that much different from how he does right now . . . and yet . . .

You feel your face scrunch in suspicion when he remembers your aunt’s food allergies, how your Uncle Rick likes his after-dinner coffee. 

Dieter might forget to put on pants, but he’s never forgotten the important dates of your relationship. He remembers what you were wearing the first night you kissed, but can’t remember to take out the pizza before it burns in the oven. 

This, this Dieter, feels wrong. 

You watch him laugh with your father and uncle by the fireplace with brandy in his hands as you work with your mother and sister to unwrap a dozen saran-wrapped pies. He comes by later and takes the stack of plates from your mother’s hands and assures her he’ll do the dishes, as thanks for such a wonderful meal.

This Dieter Bravo needs a smoking jacket and uses words like “wonderful meal”. 

Initial surprise at his near magical transformation from the car this morning long gone, you sit with this uncomfortable feeling, as everyone around you eats pie and laughs and looks all the part of a fucking Hallmark card for “joyful festivities”, long enough to finally understand it for what it is:

Anger. 

Shame. Guilt. 

Hot embarrassment. 

You look at the man who’s invaded your boyfriend’s body as he charms the pants off your mother and father, and ugly, heavy embarrassment boils over in your chest. Washing the knife in your throat down with your fourth glass of wine all night, you excuse yourself with the last bit of breath in your lungs before ducking upstairs, then stumbling to your childhood bathroom you once shared, and share again, with your sister. 

You lock the door forcefully in lieu of slamming it shut and sit down on the tile, your head against your knees. Rationally, there’s a part of you that knows this shouldn’t affect you like it is. Women would kill for a boyfriend like this – your sister very nearly jumped him in the garage. 

But that’s just the thing – this isn’t your boyfriend. This isn’t the man you spend your days and nights with and this isn’t the man you fell in love with. This isn’t the Dieter you want to show the world. 

A soft knock comes from the other side of the door and it breaks you out of your self-deprecating spiral. 

“Just a second,” you call out as you stand. You flush the empty toilet (this night is filled with ruses after all) and twitch the faucet on for two seconds. But when you open the door, you’re immediately cowed back in. 

“Dieter, what are you–,”

“Are you okay?” Beneath the veneer of the Million Dollar Man, his eyes are soft, coaxing the anxiety out of you. “You looked pale when you left.” He tucks an escaped strand of hair over your ear, watching how his fingers brush up against your skin. He gently tangles his fingers in your hair as he pulls back. He smirks. “Mom’s dressing wasn’t that bad.” 

White-hot shame blooms again and you turn your head from him, tugging your hair out of his reach. You catch his hurt expression out of the corner of your eye. 

“I’m fine. Just needed some air.” 

“You’re not a good liar. I’ve told you that.” His voice is clipped. Not irritated, but not interested in lengthy bouts of misdirection either.

“Well, I don’t feel like bearing my problems to Mr. Perfect.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms, shoulders swelling in the space of the tiny bathroom, and he leans on the sink. 

“It means you’re a better liar than me so I guess you’ll have to do it for the both of us.” 

You know it’s ridiculous to try and move around him – but maybe this Dieter wouldn’t care if you left angry. Even sober, he could manhandle you without a second thought, but between the heat of the drink in your throat and he’s blurred at the edges, you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Dieter, please, just –,”

He stands his ground, effectively blocking the door, and you huff, pushing up against his waist with your hands, your teeth bared behind your lips. He steps back, you think you’ve won a mile, but then his hands grasp so firmly around your elbows, your entire consciousness is pulled into where his fingers curl against your skin.

He gently, but seriously, shakes you slightly.

“Stop fighting me. You tell me what I did wrong and we’ll talk about this.”

The past two weeks of dread, and fear, and worry, and shame – shame that this is your family, this is how you go to pieces around them, this is all you can offer him – slam into your chest and your breathing hitches. The fingers at his chest dig into his shirt. The fourth glass of wine makes your eyes hot and tight.

“This isn’t you.” 

You grimace in the bright light of the bathroom and your confession. But beyond your closed eyes, his demeanor hasn’t changed. 

“What’s not me?”

A tear slips out the moment you open your mouth, your throat closing and gagging on your words. You swallow and try again, eyes peeling open to stare at the curve of his shoulder. 

“You’re Dieter Bravo. You dry-clean your favorite pajamas to preserve the material. You do astrology charts of people who piss you off to find out how to best get back at them. You paint until four in the morning and sleep in our bed until I wake you up–,”

Your heart thrusts its way into your airways and cuts off your ability to speak. You know you’re not making a lot of sense, but all you can think of right now is how much you want to peel this fucking black, Steve Jobs-esque, goddamn ugly-ass turtleneck apart with your bare hands. Like freeing a mermaid from a net. He squeezes your waist, his broad palm settled in the curve of your lower back. 

“Darling, I don’t see why this has you so sad –,”

“They won’t fall in love with you like I did.” You lift your watery gaze to him, unable to stop the spilling of tears. You always got teary when you drank a bit too much, but fuck, if you didn’t love him so much, you wouldn’t be so mad . . . at yourself. “I hate that you feel like you have to do this to be accepted by my family. I hate that they can’t see what makes you so special to me. I hate . . . I hate that they don’t see the real you.” 

And out of nowhere, he smiles. 

Never one to shy away from bodily fluids, Dieter kisses your tear-soaked cheeks, his hands rising up your back, taking their time to press into the curve of your hips, the bones of your ribs, the high arch of your spine, before settling on your cheeks. He kisses your wet mouth, thumbs against the corners of your lips like a soft leather bridle. He holds you, just like that, until your heart eases, stops racing in your chest, and you lean more into the kiss, chasing instead of hiding. You wrap your fingers around his wrists as he pulls away.

“With all due respect, this is just another gig for me.” His gentle smile hides no bitterness, no anger. No disgust. “I know what people like this are like, how they think, what they want. What they value.” He smears away the cold tears from your skin with his thumbs. “It’s fun, in a way, to infiltrate their little circles. It’s all fake, it’s all bullshit, and fortunately I’m fantastic at bullshit.”

You let out a watery laugh and he reaches behind you for some toilet paper to dry your tears. He blots your eyes for you before you can even take the tissue. 

“You’re not forcing me to do anything, baby,” he murmurs. “My family was exactly the same way, so I know how the game is played.”

“Yeah, and you don’t talk to them anymore. I just wish I had your bravery to cut them out of my life like you did.” 

Dieter’s mouth twitches. “Well, that had more to do with the fact that I like to occasionally make out with boys, than dysfunctional family dynamics.”

You squeeze his forearm as he continues to clean your face, trying to catch his eyes but they’d gone hard where a moment ago they were soft. He thinks, using the silence to carefully fix your make up with his thick thumb under your eyelashes to lift off the smeared mascara. 

He didn’t talk much about his life before Hollywood, but when he did, you understood why he was so closed off about it.

“Let’s put it this way: they did the cutting off, not me. And even if we have to be completely different people, your family still talks to you. I’m not saying that to guilt you, or compare trauma scars, but . . . most times we can’t pick who we love, but sometimes we have to.” 

You nod, a sense of ease washing over you. His small, I don’t know if I should say this but I’m gonna smile widens across his mouth. 

“It’s okay if they don’t see the real me, because I know you do.” He finally pulls away the tissue, his mouth pulled up in sweet earnest. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

A physical string connected between your ribs and his could not have tugged you faster. Tripping into his wide, warm chest, you drop your head onto his collarbone as you wrap your arms around his torso tighter than his own rib cage.

“Just . . .”

His bulky arms pull you into his chest, the bristles of his beard scratching at your temple. It’s not until you sink away from your own thoughts, into the silence in the bathroom, that you realize your breathing is synced with his. 

That realization hits you particularly hard, that without trying, without meaning to, you become one with him – you turn and bury your face into the pulse of his neck. If you can get to his heartbeat, maybe that’ll calm you too. Dig through the crust of the earth and end up in China. You shift in his arms, and he does too. Dieter cups the back of your head, thumb rubbing the arch of your skull. His entire arm circles your back. 

“What do you need, hm, baby? What can I give you, huh?”

You know he doesn’t mean it like that, but the girth, the weight of his voice has your toes curling in your shoes. His rasp is so often used to light that first spark. 

“Dieter –,” the moment shifts and so do you. You squirm, itching for his face in your hands, his mouth over yours, but he holds you steady. Holds you firm. So firm, you can feel he’s half-hard in his jeans. 

Oh. 

Maybe he did mean it like that. 

You press your tongue against his pulse point, your fingers splayed across the back of his rib cage, and he shudders. You’re about to bite down, when his hands peel your fingers from his back and pinch your wrists in one single, meaty grip. Heart suddenly thundering in your chest, he steps back to allow for just enough room to turn you – barely any at all – and pushes you face down on the sink counter, your wrists clasped over your ass behind you.

Cold marble pressing up against your tits, your face turned towards the window and the towel bar where you used to hang your Barbie swimsuits when you were seven, you feel his other massive palm dip under your sweater and press flat against the ridges of your spine. He hums when you let out a small whine. Flexes his fingers when you wiggle your ass against him. You seek out the marble with your cheek, heat rising under your skin, arousal suddenly burning hot in your low belly. 

“This is what you need, hm, baby? Need me to touch you? To feel you?” He murmurs. Dieter always did like playing with his food. You nod helplessly, cheek sticky against the marble. He shifts his hips into the crack of your ass, with just enough pressure to have you bucking back against him, but not enough to find relief from the stirring between your legs. 

He strokes your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing over your collarbone, gaze languid and slow. Like he can see where he needs to pluck to unravel you. 

“Why is my baby so tense?” He muses quietly, patronizing. His hand maps your spine in a single palm, edging slowly up your back until, with two fingers, he pinches your bra open. You feel the snap of the release and you rub your nose against the edge of the counter, whimpering. “Don’t I take care of you?”

You gulp. “Y-y-yes, you treat– treat me so good. I want it.” 

He has you pressed too tightly against the counter to slip his hand down your front, the edge pinching your hips. So, instead, with your hands still pinned against your tailbone, he palms your ass and rubs a thick finger down between your legs and up over the seam of your jeans. The whine building in your throat breaks into an open moan when he presses your zipper teeth into your clit.  

“Want what? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.” 

“F-fingers – tongue – fuck – y-your cock. Anything inside me.” 

The surprised, breathless chuckle that reverberates down to the button of his jeans seared against your ass has you bending, stretching, just for a glimpse of his face in the mirror. 

His mouth open, tongue curling back and forth over his bottom lip, he’s hungry. Wants so much. Can’t satiate this need without something between his teeth. Grinning around a mouthful of incisors. Patience has never been Dieter’s strong suit. 

With a firm jerk around your wrists, your back arches up off the counter, shoulders pinched, hands caught low near his groin. You know he wants you to watch him touch you in the mirror – he’s stopped before when you close your eyes – but it’s hard to look at the woman reflected back at you, with her bleary eyes, mussed hair, heaving chest, and exposed belly button where his hand hovers between the waistband and a green sweater, and recognize yourself. 

  “No one can take you from me. Do you understand?” He dips his head, arched nose dragging up the curve of your neck, breathing hot through his teeth against the lines where your hair and your skin meet. You can’t help but arch up into his waiting mouth. “Not your family. Not mine. You’re so greedy for me – who else is gonna make you feel this good?” 

“N-no one, Dieter, no one can.”

His hand rising under your sweater, thumb first at your belly button, then up between the spread of your ribs, and finally, it catches under the wire of your bra and he tugs it down. The material rubs against your sensitive nipples – it almost stings, your body pulled taught like a bowstring – the straps falling low off your shoulders, but your sweater keeps it from falling off completely and he goes no further. You whine, eager for something other than the scratch of the bra – something warmer – and push your sensitive tits into his soft hands, but his hand drops, fingering the waistline of your jeans instead. He ignores what you want to show you what you need. 

This is a thing he did. He watched you wind yourself up with deadlines and scheduling and meetings and arguments on set and and doubt and worry and fear and then he took it upon himself to tire you out enough that all of it shattered – crashed and consumed under the white noise in your head. Dieter liked to play however you needed it.

You can feel the seam of his jeans hover just beyond your fingertips, as though his hips swing unconsciously forward while he nips and sucks on your neck. God, you’d give anything to have the weight of him between your palms. 

When he speaks again, you realize at some point you squeezed your eyes shut, forgoing sight to chase the sensation that sparks across your skin every time he touched a new bare patch of skin on you. He pulls his head up from fixating a tender purple blush just below where your sweater covers your shoulder to catch your gaze in the mirror. Panthers do not watch with such hungry eyes. 

“Arms up.” It’s not a command, a request, but the words drip from his mouth, rich and sweet. He lets go of your wrists and your arms flutter above you, his fingers already rolling up the edge of your sweater. He drags it up, snagging your loose bra with it, and peeling them both off you. The immediate heat of his chest on your bare back is so hot, it burns cold. 

“Dieter,” you cry, nipples hardening in the cold air, goosebumps spiraling out along your skin. He’s there for you in an instant. 

He bites the soft, invisible hairs at your jaw, thick paws coming up to clutch your breasts, the sudden swap in temperature making your head swim. He pulls you against his chest, a new outer skin that breathes and moans and gasps, one that has a steady heartbeat your own has synced to. 

With his eyes fixated on you in the mirror, he molds your breast to his palm, rounding your nipples with his thumbs before sliding down between the curves of them. He licks the back of your neck. 

“Face down, baby,” he says. 

“But it’s cold,” you huff, pouting. You smooth your hands over his, his angular wrists, his broad thick forearms entombed in long back sleeves, then settle with your fingers in his hair. His height over you has your torso stretched, your tits bare and ripe, and he palms your stomach to the top of your ribs in two hands. He grunts when you twist his curls, keeping his head still so every bruise and wet spot on your shoulders and throat are all too visible. “Don’t you want to see all your good work?”

He blinks, slow and purposeful, his eyelids heavy, mouth parting. You can’t be sure of his decision, of what he wants, what he’s going to give, when his hands arch up the cradle of your arms, soft enough to tickle below your elbows, then around your wrists. He’s done this enough for you to know he wants you to let go.

You do. 

Fast as venom moves from fangs to flesh, he plants your hands on the counter, forcibly gripping the edge. This is how you hold on. 

He steps up against you again, iron-hot cock pressing without hesitancy between your ass cheeks, and unbuckles your pants without preamble.

“I’d rather just show you.” 

Broad hand bending your shoulders forward, fingers pressed flat over your shoulder, you gasp when your tits make contact with the cold counter, and an instant later, he’s filling your open mouth with his fingers. He wets them against the slip of your tongue and grabs your jaw. 

Your mind fracturing like cracking ice, you don’t hear the zip of his jeans, the groan as he takes himself out – barely feel the rub along your wet slit, the arranging of his fingers around your bare hip, the widening of your stance with his ankle. 

But you do feel it when he’s suddenly hilt-deep inside of you. 

You lurch forward with the weight of it, whining as though scalded at the sudden blinding pressure of pleasure and pain, and you slap a palm against the mirror to keep yourself from shattering through it. Behind you, Dieter looks like someone dislocated his kneecaps. 

“You good, baby?” He pants, drawing his hand out of your mouth, wet spit between his fingers as he cups your hanging breast. The sensation bleeds hot, then cold. Unable to help himself, he nuzzles your shoulder blades. 

You nod, eyes shut, the magnetic north sense of you spinning wildly off-kilter as you try to gulp in as much air as you can. You know you’re about to lose it anyway. He stands upright, not so much as inching out of you, when he plants his feet and nestles your ass against his hip bones, hands wiggling you further down his cock. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” 

It’s said with such wonder, a breathless reverence, that you think he might not have realized he said it out loud. You glance over your shoulder, turning your head instead of finding him in the mirror. 

The facade of the Brooklyn banker is gone. Your Dieter stares, awe-struck, at the body he’s got impaled on his cock like it’s the first time he’s seen a naked woman. Soft, pliant, eager to please, your Dieter lets you collar him, peg him, and give it to you exactly as you ask.

“How do you want it?” The phrase is so familiar, so intimate when spoken from his pink lips, you shudder, a Pavlovian response that’s got you drooling somewhere else than your mouth. He lifts his gaze and finds you staring. 

There is no one else in that moment. Not a single living soul besides you and him in this white-tiled bathroom. You can almost hear the absence of people ringing in your ears. His open, hot mouth draws your eyes away from his and you want every bit of him as stuffed up inside you as you can handle. Twisted around, you lick his bottom lip over your shoulder before offering your tongue for him to suck.

He groans, and you breathe in intimacy you’ve never experienced before. A flushed ache rises from your chest, a precursor to the aches he’ll leave you with by morning. 

You tip your head back and thumb the bristly skin against his chin.

“Hard, baby. Please.”

For all his faults, for all his forgetting, Dieter switches brain waves as fast as you do, tethered together like the gravitational spin of space rocks in the wake of a gleaming comet.

“Okay.”

He distracts you from the pain of that first rough thrust by biting down on your shoulder.

His motions are short, targeted, and right up into the cradle of your cervix, the pace driven, unrelenting and hard. You shake with the force of them, as fragile as silverware on a table near the drop of an atom bomb. 

“Oh – fuck, Dieter–,” 

He pins your arm that had touched his chin to your chest, then his chest to your back, sealing your damp skin to his shirt. The curl of that wretched black turtleneck scratches deliciously against your low back. 

Grunting in low, short bursts, Dieter sabotages his own breathing by crushing you so tight to his chest. He sucks on your neck as if to draw the oxygen straight from your blood. The fingers on your hip steady you, just for his cock wrecks your insides. 

“You wan-na – ngh – you wanna know why it doesn’t bother me?” 

Each word is spat out from between his teeth. He’s giving you your requested punishment as much as he is sprinting after his own release.

“Tell me. Tell me please.” Your voice is scraped raw, breathless and gooey at the same time. 

“Because when you’re my wife, they won’t be able to do a fucking thing about it.” 

Around him, your cunt squeezes, his words sending shocks through your nerves. You whine as if he’d smacked your ass. 

“I fucking felt that. You like that. You want that. You want my fucking cock every day.”

Again, he plants your hands on the cold counter. 

“Push back against me, baby.” You anchor yourself, ass out, elbows and knees locked. “That’s it, that’s my fucking good girl.”

He lifts his body up right, off your sweaty neck and back, and with both hands pinching your waist, he yanks you up and down on his cock in long, rough thrusts, knees bending with enough force to send you onto your toes.  

“Gonna have to take it. Just – fucking – take – it –,”

His leaking cock drives up against that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back and body tense again and again, but yanks back before that hot feeling swells. It’s so close you’re dizzy from it. 

You want to fuck yourself on his cock but you can’t time your aching hips right, so you stop trying and bend forward more, exposing more of your cunt to him. 

“Dieter, please –,” 

“Baby, you gotta be quiet. I know you feel good, but you can’t let them hear us.”

The words are out of your mouth, breaking through the thick, drowning fog and through the hindbrain barrier.

“Fuck them. Let them hear.” 

Dieter’s hips slow, punch not as deeply, as if he’s curious what you’re going to say next.

“Take off your shirt. I wanna feel your skin.” 

He listens immediately, a very good boy at heart, and the first press of his soft chest against you nearly has you coming then. 

“Harder again, please.” 

Again, without a second’s hesitation, he kisses your ear before grappling your shoulder with one hand and your hip with the other and he takes up his position as owner and keeper of your sloppy cunt. 

You cry out, high and wrecked, some semblance of sanity knowing you’re being far too loud, and he bucks the words out of you.

“I wanna suck on your earring, Dieter.” He grunts as he doubles over as if trying to yank back an unrestrained and early release. He rubs his damp forehead in the patch of soft skin by your shoulder blade. 

“Say it again.” 

With every rock of his hips, you swing up higher, and higher, your thighs tensing, nails scraping the counter. 

“Wanna put it between my lips and suck until you’re cherry red. I wanna choke on your rings. So far down my throat I gag. Wanna – wanna – lick your tattoos – all of them – ‘til the ink blurs from my spit. I –,”

The noise he makes is pained, weak, a man at the end of his rope.

He pops your ass. “Shut up. You’re gonna come now.” 

His sweaty palms slip against the soft skin of your hips, and he keeps slipping with no leverage. 

“Stand on your toes.” You do and for an absurd second, you think he’s going to pick you up in a bear hug. He wraps his arms around your rib cage, his face nestled into the hot, sticky curve of your neck, in the flipped image of when he takes you after your legs get sore from riding him. Your tits spilling over his forearms, he keeps the ludicrous bend in your spine as well as the short, rough pace. You reach your fingers around the back of his head and hold on for dear life. 

The change in angle has stars blowing across your eyes, has you whimpering strings of pleas, veneration, and curses all threaded together. His own thighs shaking, he rubs the pads of three of his fingers across your clit and you’re over the edge. 

“Oh – oh, shit –,”

The electrical storm that’s been building one wiry shock at a time finally bursts and you go rigid from head to toe, turning to marble, to steel, bright and sharp. You can feel your own release dribble down your thigh, Dieter stuttering behind you.

“Wait – fuck,”

He tries to speed up, or press harder, but he’s coming so hard you feel it expand your cunt and ends up just making a leaking mess. The sensation shivers you through another minor wave. The crest goes high, then crashes, and you slump forward, cold nips be damned, and he follows you down a second later. 

The heated weight at your back and hard, cool marble squishing your tits is too much for your dazed brain to handle. Any looser and you might slip off the edge of the earth. 

Dieter seems to be in a similar state. He not so much pulls out of you as he goes weak-kneed to the floor. A single tug on your hip has you stumbling down with him.

Despite the garland around the stairs, despite the smell of cranberries in the air, despite the veneer of perfect holiday wholesomeness, it’s the slick layer of sweat, grime, and cum over your skin that has you finally smiling. 

You recognize you have been gone far too long – there’s not enough spiked hot cider in the world to ignore two missing bodies and a locked door. Dieter puts his barefoot preemptively up against the door frame and you giggle into his shoulder. 

“Oh, there’s the sound I’ve been missing!” He nuzzles you, a blissful smile breaking open his face, sunlight over storm clouds. He wiggles beneath you, trying to tug you on top of him, but with your jeans constricting your thighs, and his barely below his hips, all it really accomplishes is the two of you rolling around on the bathroom floor.

In a heap of limbs, slick skin, his knee catching the button of your jeans, you bump your nose against his chin, there’s something bright building in your chest – it’s twisting your mouth, pinching your cheeks – his fingers grab your elbow, his eyes lock into yours – 

And you’re laughing. 

You’re laughing too loud, all pretense gone. You can’t honestly care what they’re thinking downstairs.

He manages to get you under him, his damp hair clinging to his temples and tangling down in frizzy strands. 

“I’m gonna say this and I need you to actually hear me.” 

You nod, grinning up at him and lightly tracing his clavicle. 

He swats at your hand and holds it to your chest. 

“Don’t wait until it’s that bad, okay?” You chuckle and he bites the tip of your nose. “Listen to me, you little goblin, I’m trying to be serious for a second.”

You settle under him, fingers intertwining with his over your chest. Sincere Dieter is a beautiful thing to look at. 

“This holiday bullshit can be a lot. Spent a lot of them either in coke up to my eyeballs, or in the bathroom the next day. It fucking sucks that these are the people we can from, but we can’t change that. What’s important is the family we build right now–,”

Your mouth drops open, his words suddenly illuminating a future that had always seemed so blurry and distant. 

“Dieter, I –,”

“I’m gonna marry you someday, so let’s start with us.” He kisses the back of your hand. “We carry each other, okay?” 

You nod, the white light of that future searing a hole in your chest, exposing your heart to the open air, and bringing tears to your eyes. You nod, more assured, before kissing him on his bottom lip.

“Okay.” 

The next few minutes play out just like they would if you were at home: cleaning each other up, trying on clothes only to realize he grabbed your sweater instead, and bumping affectionate kisses wherever they could reach. 

At the top of the stairs, you don’t know what awaits you in the living room. What exactly you’ll be returning to. Who will catch you and who won’t.

But it doesn’t matter. His hand is around yours and he’s grinning petulantly against all the world. 

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

Your heart says yes. 

Hahahahha! I can assure you reader definitely wanted to smack him with a frying pan 🤣😂

I’m glad you liked it! 😍

Memories

Summary: What happens when your husband, Dieter, forgets who you are?

Warnings: 18+ minors get outta here! Cursing, fluff, smut, feel good, oral(f receiving), fingering(f receiving), probably not like realistic medical knowledge but it’s fiction 🤷‍♀️

A/N: Thank you so much @papipascalispunk for editing. @jay-zzle for the idea AND the mood board 😍❤️ I really liked writing this and had a lot of fun with it. Hope y’all like it! @schnarfer(it's here!)

Masterlist||AO3 Link

“Wait, who said we can’t have fruit bars anymore?” you ask, turning from the pantry to look at your seven year old daughter, Luna, sitting at the kitchen island.

“Daddy,” Luna states matter of factly, “He said that it’s fake food and we should only eat organic stuff.”

“Yeah, we need organic food,” your son Leo pipes in from the seat next to her. At three years old, he is currently in the copy everything big sister says or does phase.

“So, what do you want as a snack in your lunch box then?” you ask, raising your eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

“Uhhh… banana?” Luna shrugs, “Daddy wasn’t very specific on what I should eat instead.”

“Okay but get your breakfast eaten before your cereal gets soggy,” you say, pointing at both before starting on the dishes.

Of course Dieter would be the one to tell the kids not to eat certain foods. The man scolds you every time he sees your Bluetooth headphones – droning on and on about the effects it’ll have on your brain waves and how it’s going to damage your mind. Your relationship with Dieter was a bit of a chaotic whirlwind, meeting randomly on the set of one of the movies he starred in, one your friend was working on the set of.

“Well, hello there,” Dieter had said, standing next to you by the craft table. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“Excuse me?” you asked, looking around to see who he was actually talking to.

“Or should I walk by again?” he said with a smile.

“Is that how you get all the girls?” you asked, picking up a piece of cheese and pointing it at him, “Because that shit was pretty cheesy if you ask me.”

“No, trying something new,” Dieter said, cracking up into a giant fit of laughter. “Sorry, sorry. That– yeah, that was pretty good.”

“Bravo needed on set!” someone with a headset shouted in the distance, frantically waving at him.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he sighed, “Hope to see you ar– wait, what’s your name?”

You introduce yourself and he takes your hand, kissing the back of it.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, repeating your name and winking, “Hope to see you around.”

That was the conversation that started it all nearly eight years ago. Within the first year of knowing Dieter, you were married and pregnant – and no – it wasn’t a shotgun wedding, as much as the tabloids tried to pin it as one.

“Dieter Bravo and Mystery Woman Seen Leaving Las Vegas Wedding Chapel”

“Dieter Bravo Expecting First Child with New Wife – Shotgun Wedding?”

“How Long Before Dieter Bravo Gets His First Divorce?”

You both just knew you were meant to be together. With the birth of Luna, he had sobered up completely. These days he hardly even drinks beer. It’s weird in a way, that he’s changed so much from who you first met, but still the same Dieter in every other aspect. Wild, spontaneous, creative, romantic, chaotic at times, and so loving.

–

“Good morning, my babies,” Dieter says, waltzing into the kitchen, giving each of his kids a kiss on the top of their heads.

“Hi, Daddy,” Luna and Leo exclaim.

“Hello, my love,” Dieter smiles, wrapping his arms around your waist giving you a sloppy smooch on the cheek.

“Ew,” Luna shouts, making gagging noises.

“Yeah, what Luna said!” Leo says, copying his older sister with fake gagging.

“Stop with the fake gagging,” he replies, looking at them, “You’ll make mommy sick.”

“Hi, babe,” you laugh, “Someone’s in a good mood this morning.”

“I want to start doing my own stunts like Tom Cruise,” Dieter explains excitedly, “And I think I’m going to crush it today! I’m supposed to scale a building, don’t worry, everything is going to be totally safe.”

“Seriously, Dieter?” you sigh, “You may say that it’s safe but I’m still going to worry – please be safe.”

Dieter gasps, putting his hand to his chest as if he were clutching a set of pearls. “Babies, I don’t think mommy trusts daddy!”

“Momma,” Leo laughs, perching up on the chair more, “Daddy be fine!”

“Yeah, momma,” Dieter says with a grin, “Daddy be fine.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, snorting and shaking your head, looking at your watch you realize you’re going to be cutting it close in getting Luna to school on time. “Shit!”

“Mommy,” Luna scolds, “You shouldn’t say bad words like that!”

“Luna, hurry up with your cereal or else you’re going to be late for school again,” you say as you turn to Dieter who is rummaging in the fridge for his own breakfast. “What time do you have to be on set?”

“In about an hour, get her to school. My favorite son and I will be fine here at home. If need be, I’ll tell the director that I’m going to be late. Family first,” he says, “Not like they’d fire me at this point. I’m the entire reason people are going to want to see this movie.”

“I love you so much,” you say, giving him a kiss before ushering Luna out the door.

“Love you too, baby!” Dieter shouts.

–

“I’m back,” you announce from the front door.

“That didn’t take as long as I expected,” Dieter chuckles, “I gotta get headed to the studio though.” He scoops Leo up into a tight hug, “We'll play superhero when I get back home, okay?”

“Otay,” Leo says, pouting.

“Poor baby,” Dieter coos and glances up at you with a smirk, “You sure you don’t want another one?”

“Dieter,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck, “We’ve talked about this. If it feels right, then maybe, but right now? No.”

“Fine,” Dieter groans, “But the moment you think it feels right, tell me?”

“Promise,” you smirk.

Dieter tells Leo goodbye with the promise of playing superheroes when he gets back home. Your mind begins to wander back to Dieter’s question about another baby as you go about your chores. You start smiling thinking back to when you first decided to start trying for a baby –  lying in bed together shortly after getting married.

“How many kids do you want?” Dieter asked, playing with the wedding band on your finger.

“I’d always imagined three honestly,” you smiled, “Why?”

“I want whatever you want,” he grinned, slotting himself between your legs again. “But if you wanted at least one I wouldn’t mind trying now.”

“D, we just got married a month ago,” you said, shaking your head, “Is that the only reason you married me? To have a baby?”

“Of course not, baby,” Dieter said, linking his fingers with yours and pinning them above your head, “I just know I really, really want them with you.”

“Oh yeah?” you whispered, tilting your head up to capture his lips. He moaned into your mouth, slowly grinding his stiffness against you.

“Yes,” he panted, breaking the kiss.

“Let’s do it then,” you said, nipping his bottom lip, “Fuck a baby into me, Dieter.”

“Fuck yeah, baby,” he groaned.

“Momma!” Leo shouts, pulling you from your thoughts, “Your phone.”

You had been so deep in the memory you didn’t even notice your phone ringing. It’s just Dieter, probably checking in to see how your day is going. He tends to do that while he’s on breaks at work.

“Well, hello, Tom Cruise,” you answer, giggling – except it isn’t Dieter on the other end. 

Instead, you hear his assistant, Andy, saying your name before, “Dieter’s been in an accident. I’m almost to your house, I’ll watch Leo so you can go to Cedars-Sinai medical,” quickly spills out of his mouth, “It’s not good.”

–

It’s been two weeks that you’ve sat beside his bed in this damn hospital, waiting for him to wake up. The doctors are all hopeful that he’ll wake up at any minute, but it’s been two days since he’s been off the ventilator, and nothing has happened yet. The kids keep asking where their dad is, and you don’t have any other answer than he’s sick. 

“Dieter,” you beg, holding onto his hand, “Babe, please wake up. We need you. Luna and Leo miss you – I miss you. Please just wake up.”

The nurse comes in to check Dieter’s vitals for the third time today. Since she’s keeping him company, you decide to head to the cafeteria to get some food, grabbing something simple before heading back to Dieter’s room. When you return, you notice a flurry of activity.

“Mr. Bravo, can you tell me what year it is?” a doctor asks, shining a small flashlight in his eyes.

“Of course I can, dumbass! It’s 2016,” Dieter snaps. “Now will you stop shining that light in my eye?”

“What’s going on?” you ask hesitantly.

“He woke up while you went to get food,” a nurse explains, “We’re trying to make sure mentally he’s with us.”

“Oh, for fuck sake!” Dieter cries out, “I’m fine, never felt better! There, she must be my new assistant.”

All eyes turn to you. This was a possibility the doctor had talked about before – temporary amnesia. Hopefully that’s all it is. The doctor motions you to follow him out of the room.

“He seems to have hit his head harder than we thought. In all honesty, I would try to play pretend with him for a little bit. Try thinking of things that might remind him of who he actually is today,” the doctor suggests. “I’m so sorry Mrs. Bravo.”

Dieter is having a conniption in the room while nurses are trying to calm him down. As you step back in, you see your husband frantically disconnecting and throwing the wires off of his body and onto the floor. 

“Where the fuck is my assistant?” Dieter yells.

“Dieter, D, baby – Mr. Bravo!” you shout and Dieter immediately freezes, eyes wide as saucers. “You need to calm down before you hurt yourself.”

“What happened?” Dieter asks, looking around at everyone.

“We’ll give you guys some space,” a nurse says quietly while ushering the others out of the room. You grab the chair next to his bed and sit down, reaching for his hand but stopping yourself as you notice your ring. Right now, this isn’t your husband. This is Dieter Bravo who believes it’s the year 2016.

“You were in an accident, you hit your head pretty good,” you start explaining to him, “You’ve been in a coma for two weeks now.”

“So, who are you?” he asks, looking you up and down with a raised eyebrow. “I knew my team wanted to hire me a new assistant since things didn’t work out with the last one – didn’t realize they’d pick someone so hot. Would you wanna have sex with me?”

“Dieter, I don’t think you’re cleared for those types of activities,” you chuckle, “I’m here for whatever you might need though.”

“Can you get me my phone?” he asks with those puppy-dog eyes he does best.

“Sure,” you reach for your purse digging around and find his phone, handing it over to him. “The passcode is 332016”

“The fuck? Why would I change it from the classic 42069?” he asks, looking at you with confusion.

“It’s uh… an important day to you,” you say, looking away, not wanting him to see the tears forming in your eyes. The day you met. 

“So, did I have an accident on set?”

“Yeah, you were scaling a building and the cable holding you snapped. You fell a good distance and smacked your head on the ground.”

“Wait,” Dieter says looking at his phone calendar, pointing it towards you, “Why does this say it’s 2024?”

“Because it’s not 2016,” you shrug, “It’s 2024.”

“How long have I been in a fucking coma?” Dieter asks, starting to panic again, frantically searching through the contacts in his phone, “Why can’t I find my dealer's number? I need coke. Wait, you’re my fucking assistant – go get me coke!”

“You’ve only been in a coma for two weeks and the only coke I’ll get you is Coca Cola,” you say crossing your arms, “I won’t let you have drugs in m– the house, Dieter.”

“Wait, my assistant lives with me?” he gasps, “You’re just supposed to come when I call you.”

“Different kind of assistant here.”

“Wait, I can’t have you in my house! I see that ring on your finger – I don’t want to get in between a marriage,” Dieter says, pointing at your left hand.

“It’s– it’s complicated right now,” you shrug.

“Fine, stay in my house, but stay out of my way,” Dieter sighs in frustration.

This is going to be a lot harder than you thought. He doesn’t remember who you are to him. He doesn’t remember getting clean when he married you. He doesn’t remember anything. Going home that night doesn’t help either because Luna wants to know what’s going on with her dad.

“Andy said that daddy woke up!” Luna says vibrating with excitement, “How come he’s not home?

“I had to leave him at the hospital because he’s still sick, honey.” You sit down on the plush couch in the living room, “Come here. I wanna talk to you about something.”

“Okay,” Luna hesitantly says, coming to sit next to you.

“Daddy is still sick. He looks fine but his brain is sick right now.”

“What’s that mean?” she questions, looking at you with the same eyes as her father.

“He doesn’t remember some stuff about his life right now,” you continue, “But we are gonna try to help him get it back. We have to think of the best memories we have with daddy so that maybe he’ll remember better.”

“So, we have to fix daddy?” she asks with tears in her eyes as you grab her into a hug, stroking her hair.

“Yeah, sweet girl, we have to fix daddy,” you say, trying not to cry yourself.

–

What was supposed to only be a few days turned into a week at the hospital. A week of playing Dieter’s assistant and having him boss you around. He was still adamant on getting drugs, but you put your foot down on that one. You weren’t going to let him ruin his seven years of sobriety just because he lost his memory.

“Alright Mr. Bravo looks like you’re all set to leave. Just need you to sign a couple of papers here and then you can be on your way,” the doctor says, handing him the papers.

“Fucking finally,” Dieter groans, “Not that this isn’t a wonderful hospital, but I’d much rather be home.”

“Of course,” the doctor says.

“Will you go ahead and bring the car around? I’d rather not walk too much considering my condition,” Dieter asks, looking at you.

“Of course, D– Mr. Bravo,” you grit through your teeth with the most customer service smile you can muster. That was a new development, Dieter wanting you only to refer to him as Mr. Bravo. You rush out of the room so that it doesn’t blow up into another argument. He’s already tried to fire you twice because of the no drugs thing. You had to make up some story of how you’re in a five-year contract that cannot be broken and tell him three times before he finally bought the story.

Pulling the car around to the front of the hospital, you see him being wheeled out.

“Thank you again so much for taking care of me,” he says, winking at the nurse, “Best care I’ve ever received!”

“No problem at all, Dieter,” she giggles. 

“Could I possibly get your number?” Dieter asks, looking expectantly at the nurse after getting settled into the passenger seat of the car. She shakes her head violently.

“No, sorry,” she says before running off wheeling the wheelchair back into the building.

“Well, that was fucking weird,” Dieter says, looking at you. “Did I do something wrong? Most women don’t literally run from me like that.”

“No, Mr. Bravo, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you growl, “Nothing at all.”

You begin to play a song you hope might bring back some sort of memory of you. With all the hope you can muster you hit play and hear Clint Eastwood by Gorillaz, one of the songs you guys would listen to while you got high together. Dieter starts to chuckle listening to the song.

“What?” you snap at him.

“It’s just this song,” Dieter said grinning, “It reminds me of someone.”

“Oh?” you ask, trying not to pry too much hoping he’ll just continue talking.

“Yeah, I can’t remember what her name is, though. Good lay, that’s for damn sure,” he says, laughing a little, “All I remember is she wasn’t even in the business, she’d call me out on all my shit, and we would smoke weed together listening to this song a lot. I think that’s why I liked her. Wonder what she’s up to these days?”

“Oh um… who knows, maybe she’s still in town?” Your heart swells realizing he’s talking about you, that he remembers some remnants of you. 

“No way!” Dieter says and sighs, “Way too fucking good for someone like me anyways. Probably found some nice guy, got married, has kids, the whole white picket fence shit and everything. She was way out of my league.”

Pulling up to the house you don’t even know what to say to him. He looks almost defeated in a way and then looks confused when he sees the front door opening.

“Oh no,” you whisper, watching Luna run to the car, “Dieter, wait here. Do not move!”

“Why the fuck are there children at my house?” he asks while you’re getting out, but you shut the door behind you, ignoring him.

“Luna, baby, I need you to go back into the house. Daddy’s sick, remember?” you say, trying to usher her back up the driveway.

“Mommy!” Leo shrieks, running to you.

“Fuck – I mean fudge,” Andy says, frantically running out to the driveway, “I was in the bathroom. She must’ve heard the car, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“The hell is going on here?” Dieter’s voice booms while getting out of the car, “I asked you why there are kids in my house.”

“Da–” Luna starts, but you cut her off.

“You two, inside. Now,” you say, ushering them towards Andy. Once they’re inside you whip around to look at Dieter standing by the car.

“You,” you snarl, walking towards him, “Screw what the doctor said. I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m not your fucking assistant so stop bossing me around. I’m your wife – those two are our children!”

“Wha–” Dieter stares at you with wide eyes, “D– DNA Test, I want a fucking DNA test!”

“Dieter, there isn’t a need for a DNA test because they’re your kids. I mean, did you even look at them?”

“Those are not my kids, they look Latino,” he argues.

“Dieter!” you yell, “You are Latino.”

“Oh, yeah,” he whispers, looking down. “So, you’re my wife?”

“Yes, Dieter, I’m your wife. I’m the girl that would get high with you listening to Clint Eastwood.”

“Wild,” he says looking at the house, the ground below him, the yard, anywhere but you “Wild.”

–

It’s been a week at home now, but Dieter is trying his hardest to regain his memory after you lay everything out on the table for him. You show him pictures of your Las Vegas wedding, your pregnancy photos, the kids’ births – he finally relents to the truth when you show him their birth certificates with his name listed under Father. Luna has been trying to show him drawings that she’s done for him, but nothing is working. Poor Leo just wants to play superheroes, but at just three years old, he doesn’t understand what’s going on at all.

One night, after you put the kids to bed, Dieter comes to your bedroom.

“What if we had sex?” he suggests.

“Dieter, I don’t know if that would be a good idea,” you groan, flopping onto the bed rubbing your eyes.

“I’m just saying, what if we did?” he shrugs, “Was just a suggestion, but I get it.”

“Come here,” you say, patting the spot next to you in bed. He reluctantly sits down next to you as you open your arms as an invitation. “How about we cuddle?”

He nods, setting his head on your chest. You can tell he didn’t know what to do with his hands because he’s so tense. You grab one of them and push it around your back, hoping he’ll understand your silent suggestion. 

“Like this?” he whispers, carefully adjusting both arms to wrap around you.

“Just like that,” you hum, stroking the curls at the base of his neck, breathing his scent in for the first time in weeks. Clean laundry, a hint of eucalyptus, and something that’s so specifically Dieter.

“I like this,” Dieter purs, rubbing his head against your chest, “I wish so badly I could just remember everything.”

“I know D, I know,” you sigh, continuing to gently stroke his head, “We’ll get there.”

Dieter moves so his head is in the crook of your neck. You feel his lips begin to place soft kisses against your skin.

“Dieter,” you gasp, turning your head to look at him, “What are you doing?”

“I wanna make you feel better,” he says, giving you those puppy dog eyes you can never refuse. “You’ve had to deal with a lot and this is the only way I know how to try and make things right.”

“Okay,” you whisper, nodding your head. As much as you’ve avoided intimacy with Dieter while his memory was gone, he’s still your Dieter and you miss him. 

He starts nipping along your jaw and down your neck. One of his hands moves to your breast gently kneading it. His lips move down your throat to your chest, making his way down to your stomach and pushing your shirt up. He places several kisses around your navel down to the top of your underwear, looking up at you again for confirmation. “It’s okay,” you nod, giving him the go ahead. He peels them off your hips and down your legs, throwing them to the floor.

Without warning he flattens his tongue, licking a stripe up your seam. Working his tongue against your clit and back down to your entrance. Up and down, up and down.

“Fuck, baby, I’ve missed this,” you cry out, running your fingers through his hair, “Feels so fucking good!”

Dieter starts humming, loving the praise you were giving him. His tongue continues circling your bundle of nerves, hoping to hear more words of praise.

“Taste so fucking good,” he says breaking away, “Best pussy I’ve ever had.”

You grip his hair tightly and shove his face back to your core. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you can feel your orgasm approaching.

“Please don’t stop,” you moan, “I’m so fucking close!”

Dieter doubles down his efforts after hearing those words. He’s determined to get you off now. One of his hands makes its way to your center, teasing your entrance before plunging two of his thick fingers inside, curling them up to hit that spot only he’s ever been able to reach.

“Oh, fuck,” you cry out, back arching, “Y– yes, just like that!”

He starts grunting, rutting into the mattress, so badly needing to make you come. He knows you’re close, listening to your breathing and hearing the pitch of your moans. 

“D,” you moan, while he grabs your thighs, pulling you unbelievably closer to his face to completely devour you before sliding his fingers back into you. “I’m gonna come!”

“Give it to me, baby, come on,” he says, pulling away panting before diving back in for more, “I need it”. He feels the way your legs begin to shake, your walls fluttering around his fingers.

“Fuck,” you hiss, head thrown back against the pillow closing your eyes, “I– I’m gonna… god.”

Dieter feels your walls constrict around his fingers and hums, collecting your release slowly. He takes his time licking you clean before you push him away, feeling overly sensitive. When you finally open your eyes to look at him, you notice his smile and a glint in his eyes. He crawls back up the length of your body and you grab his face, kissing him deeply tasting yourself on his tongue.

“I can’t believe you married me,” he says, breaking the kiss and wrapping his arms around you again, “Love me forever?”

“Dieter, I’m pretty sure I’ve already proven that I’ll love you forever,” you softly chuckle, beginning to stroke his back.

–

The doctor keeps saying to just be patient, that it’s going to take time for Dieter’s memory to return. But it feels like it’s been forever as another week passes. Everyone is getting frustrated, especially Leo.

“Why is daddy broke?” Leo screams at the top of his lungs, “He no play with me!”

“Leo, Daddy just doesn’t feel good,” you try to explain.

“He no like me!” Leo wails, “He only likes Luna.”

“Leo, daddy does too like you,” you try telling him, “He loves you very much.” 

“No,” Leo cries as you scoop him up as he buries his face into your shoulder.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” you soothe.

It wasn’t that Dieter wasn’t trying with the kids, he just didn’t know how. His dad instincts hadn’t been brought back full-force. He was great with Luna –  engaged in conversation with her, drew pictures with her, watched her put on fashion shows. With Leo though, he didn’t know how to interact with a toddler. Leo would get upset and Dieter didn’t know what to do besides call you for help. Before Dieter’s accident Leo was his little buddy, followed him everywhere, would play with him for hours being superheroes or whatever Leo decided on that day.

You were able to get Leo to calm down and because of his tantrum he wound up falling asleep. After putting him in his bed for a nap you went to search for Dieter.

“Hey,” you sigh, seeing him standing by the window looking into the backyard.

“Hey,” he says sniffling, wiping his sleeve against his nose, “I’m so sorry.”

“Dieter, I’m not the one you should be saying sorry to. Leo misses you! I know that you’re trying, I do, but I need you to try harder for him,” you sigh, “I can’t pretend that I even know what you’re going through, but our baby boy is hurting because he misses his dad!”

“I know,” Dieter says turning around, you could now see the tears falling down his face, “It’s just… he scares me! It’s easier with Luna because I can understand every word she says, she can show me things, she doesn’t throw a tantrum every five minutes.”

“Dieter, he’s your son! Not some little monster to be scared of! He’s three and doesn’t know any better,” you scold him, “Like I said, I just need you to try.”

“Okay,” Dieter agrees, wiping the tears off his face, “When he wakes up from his nap, I’ll try.”

Dieter could hear Leo awake in his room as he slowly made his way there.

“Dad-Bomb an’ dude-bomb! To rescue!” Leo says, jumping off his bed with a cape around his shoulders. Dieter stands in the doorway observing him. Why did that sound so familiar? Dad-Bomb.

“Hey Leo,” Dieter says cautiously, “What are you playing?”

“Superhero,” Leo smiles, “Want to play with me?”

“Can I?” Dieter exclaims, “I’ve always wanted to be a superhero!”

“Yeah!” Leo shouts, running to his closet to grab something. He comes back out with a big purple cape with D-B on the back, handing it to Dieter. “Put on your cape.”

Dieter pulls the cape around his neck, tying it so it wouldn’t fall off. He notices Leo’s little green cape he was wearing also had D-B on the back.

“Do we have names, Leo?” Dieter asks, “I can’t help but see we have stuff on the back of our super-awesome capes!”

“I’m Dude-Bomb, you’re Dad-Bomb!” Leo gleefully exclaims 

“Dad-Bomb?”

“Yeah, like ‘da-bomb’ –  means super cool,” Leo giggles.This was starting to feel extremely familiar to Dieter. 

Leo scampers off to his closet again, rummaging through it trying to find something. He comes back holding a piece of paper and hands it to Dieter. Dieter holds it up, staring at it. His drawing of Dad-Bomb and Dude-Bomb, fighting crime together, and it all comes rushing back.

“Oh my god, Leo,” Dieter yells.

He picks Leo up, swinging him around. Hearing the commotion, you start running towards Leo’s room fearing the worst. Rounding the corner into the room, you saw Dieter crying, hugging Leo tightly and swinging him back and forth.

“Dad-Bomb and Dude-Bomb!” Dieter exclaims, grinning from ear to ear.

“Yeah, that’s you an’ me!” Leo announces proudly.

“Everything okay?” you ask quietly, looking at both of them.

“Yeah. March 3, 2016 – that’s the day I met you,” Dieter says, tears rolling down his face.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, “Baby.”

“Yeah, baby. It’s all back,” he says, setting Leo back down and rushing to grab you in a tight embrace, “I’m back.”

🤣🤣🤣

Did not expect that ending LMFAO

Hope no one sees me cackling in my car and asks what’s up

Married Joel Sits on You feat. Joel Miller

Summary: Joel has a question for you. My contribution to my own Married Joel Sits on You challenge.

No Outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader | Rating: Teen | Word Count: 615

Content Warnings: joel sits on reader, possible collapse of popchair imminent, fire pit recklessness, mentions of marital weight gain

Author's Notes: thank you to me for being such a menace. not read or proofed by anyone but me so you get what you get.

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This was not what you had envisioned your Saturday night to be. 

It had started out normally -  sitting in your neighbour’s backyard around the firepit, chatting with him and his wife and his brother and his brother’s wife. It had been pleasant, downright agreeable and gratifying even. At least it was until Tommy bid you and the rest of the group good night and he and Maria stood up and left.

You were left alone with Joel and Tess. Their exchanged glances from the otherside of the fire pit left you feeling a little nervous. 

Tess smiled at you, her face’s shadows flickering and dancing, carving a sinister visage that you hadn’t been aware she could hold, and her voice was lower and seedier.

“We been neighbours for a while.”

You nodded, almost too politely. “Yes.”

A silence fell over the three of you, then Tess stood up and made an exaggerated stretch.

“Well, if that’s the evening, I’ve had it. I’m gonna turn in.”

She gave Joel a look and a head nod towards you, before giving you a curt smile, and leaving to head inside.

Joel’s fingers nervously strummed on his knees as he raised his brows with a tight mouthed grin, and you returned one in kind, leaving you both sitting in silence once again. You had no idea what Tess’s ominous actions were indicative of, but you could feel the nerves come off Joel in waves, and that heightened you own.

You finally decided to cut the hush between you and cleared your throat. “Ahem uh, I.. I think I should also turn in - myself… and leave, too… and go home - to my house. Over there. My house -uh, home.” Your voice was trying so hard to keep the nervous timber at bay while you motioned to your property behind the fence.

Joel looked at you wide eyed, almost scared, and his mouth opened to protest. His need to keep you there must have taken precedence over basic host etiquette because as soon as you went to stand up, Joel jumped over the firepit and sat on you, pinning you to the flimsy popchair.

You could feel his heart racing as your face was pressed against his back and you felt his whole weight on you.

“I need you - “, he huffed and you felt the vibrations from his deep voice reverberate through his back.

You stiffened. Sure, you’d watched him through the blinds in your bedroom as he mowed the lawn, and caught him running out the front door in nothing but his boxers to chase the newspaper boy who threw the morning’s paper a little too close to the bay window out front. But once he and Tess were married a few years back, you’d tried to stop because marriage had been good to Joel. His mental health and financial stability had improved, and he seemed overall a happier person. Tess made him happy and kept him taken care of and the only drawback seemed to be the effect it had on his waistline which was now pressing you uncomfortably into the creaking chair. 

“Joel - I think we shouldn’t-”

“No, please - hear me out!”

He cranked his head back to try and look at you. “I didn’t want to ask this in front of everyone and even Tess thinks this is a good idea.”

Butterflies or some other sort of fluttering insect bustled in your core, but you tried to maintain whatever decorum you could. 

“T-Tess thinks it’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, she said you’d be perfect but I didn’t want to take advantage of you.” He then sighs and finally says, “I need you to help me with my taxes.”

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